Page 37 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

Epilogue

Brooklyn

O ne thing I appreciate about Slade, is that when he says yes, he makes it happen. Fast. I don’t know how he did it, but we’re getting ready to go home. The walk through the airport is quick, just a private one he hired, or maybe owns. He didn’t say.

On the tarmac, the jet waits for us, more shark than bird—sleek white, black windows like an eye without a soul.

The stairs are barely down before Slade is guiding me up, his hand at the small of my back.

It’s possessive, but also super fucking cute.

The stairs flex under our combined weight, but I don’t stumble.

I’m learning how to not be such a clutz.

Inside, the air is silent and thick with money.

The interior is all blonde leather, glass, and champagne buckets set like shrines on low tables.

The only sound is the whisper of conditioned air and the faint tick of cooling metal.

The aisle is too narrow for two, so I go first, sliding past the lounge chairs, the empty couches, until Slade stops me in front of the large three-seater and gestures: “Here.”

I sit, and the leather inhales me—cool at first, then warming fast. He buckles me in, one click, and for a second we’re close enough to kiss, but he doesn’t. He just rests his palm on my thigh and leaves it there, staring into the depths of my soul with a small smirk.

A woman in a navy skirt and high heels brings us drinks. “Champagne for the lady, sir?” she says, but her eyes are all on Slade. The way she looks at him makes me want to claw her fucking eyes out.

He nods, but doesn’t order for himself. Just coffee, black. When the woman’s gone, Slade unbuttons his jacket and sits across from me, and leans back, closing his eyes like he’s already at thirty thousand feet.

I try to watch the city slide away through the tiny oval window, but it’s just tarmac, then runway, then sky. The takeoff is smooth; the cabin tilts, but nothing inside me does. My heart is a steel drum, hollow and ringing, impossible to ignore.

When the jet levels, the noise drops out, replaced by a syrupy quiet that makes everything inside the plane seem sultry, more comfortable. Slade opens his eyes and looks at me, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his jaw says: damn, little fox, the things I wanna do to you .

The feeling is mutual, and my pussy throbs.

I unclip, stand, and slide across the small space. My legs feel boneless, my blood singing with desire for this psychotic man who holds my heart. I reach him, standing over him, letting the overheads carve my face into sections of shadow and light.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me.

I realize then that this is my move.

I straddle his lap, knees on either side of his hips, ass out. My hand trails down my cheek, playing with the bear he’s let come in.

“Are you nervous?” I ask, whispering because the air is so close between us.

He shakes his head, but his hands are fists at his sides. “No,” he says. “I’m waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For you to ruin me.”

That’s all the invitation I need.

I unbutton his shirt, careful, slow, peeling each layer until his skin is visible.

There are old scars, a map of places he’s been or things he’s survived.

There are new scars too. One’s I made that night with the knife.

I trace them with my nails, the faintest scratch, just enough to make him twitch.

He sits perfectly still, head back, throat bare. His jaw works, but he doesn’t say a word.

I stand and reach down, unzip his pants, finding him hard and hot and already wet at the tip.

The feel of him is electricity, buzzing up my arm and into my chest. Pushing my jeans over my hips, along with my underwear, I resume my straddling position over him, lifting, lining us up, and sink down—slow at first, then all the way, the pressure delicious and almost too much.

He doesn’t grunt or gasp, just breathes out through his nose. His hands clamp on my hips, not guiding, just holding, like he can’t decide whether to stop me or pull me deeper.

The hum of the engines is the only soundtrack. Every time the plane shivers, it vibrates through him and into me, a current that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

I set a pace, slow and grinding. I want him to feel every inch, every shift. Grinding down before circling my hips, I use his cock, hitting that spot, again and again as he groans, biting at my neck.

His hands move up, under my shirt, finding my breasts, then my throat. He wraps his fingers in my hair, not tight—just enough to remind me that I’m still prey, even when I’m on top.

I ride him harder, thighs burning, the sound of skin on skin muffled by the leather. He holds me in place, lets me take everything, but when I start to shudder, to lose my rhythm, he takes over.

He bucks up, just once, and I see stars behind my eyelids. My nails dig into his shoulders, through the fabric, drawing crescents of blood that bloom red against the white.

He lets go of my hair, cups my face, and pulls me down until our lips barely touch.

“Come for me,” he says, and I do—hard, all at once, biting down on his bottom lip to keep from screaming.

He fucks up into me, chasing his own high, and when he finds it, it’s silent. Just the clamp of his hands, the flash of teeth as he bares them in relief. I feel him spill inside, the heat of it, the messy proof.

We stay like that, bodies locked, for a long minute. I can feel his heartbeat, frantic under my palms.

When I finally pull back, I’m shaking. Sweat runs down my back, soaks through my shirt. My knees ache, but it’s a good ache.

He looks at me like I’ve just told him a secret.

I reach up, wipe the sweat from his brow, and kiss him, soft this time. Never get enough of this tall drink of sexy fuck that belongs to me.

I climb off, stand on wobbly legs, and adjust my shirt before grabbing my jeans. There’s a spot of blood where my nail sliced his chest; I wipe it with my thumb, then suck it clean.

He watches, hungry, and for the first time I see real need in his eyes. Not the hunger of a predator, but the want of a man who is terrified he might lose something.

I sit next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and buckle in. For the rest of the flight, I keep my hand in his lap, fingers tracing idle circles over his skin.

When the jet lands, we’re a mess. Clothes rumpled, skin marked, my hair a disaster. I don’t care.

We deplane, and the world is new.

Later, in a car on the way to the new house, one my father owned that now belongs to me—a mansion with a gate and a hired driver and a future I can’t imagine—I lean against him, watching the city through tinted windows.

“Do you ever regret it?” I ask, voice small. “Do you regret me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He turns, brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, and studies me.

“Not for a second,” he says.

I nod, not sure what to say next. The city blurs by, neon and headlights and all the places we’ll never have to hide again.

When we get to the house, it’s huge—marble and steel and way too many rooms. The front door opens and a man in a suit bows, “Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Marcus.” I blink at the title, but Slade just squeezes my hand and leads me inside.

The rest of the night is a blur. More sex, rougher this time. We ruin every surface, every room. By the time we collapse on the floor of the master suite, the sun is coming up.

I look over at him, bruises on his neck, blood on his chest, and I smile.

He pulls me in, kisses my forehead, and whispers, “I like the sound of Mr. Marcus. I’d take your last name if you want to marry me.”

Shock ripples through me. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Do you want to marry me, little fox?”

I laugh, low and real, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “Yes… yes I want to marry you.”

He kisses me like he’s been starving for me, our souls reaching out to touch each other, to entwine, to become one.

This is the ending I never dared to want.

This is the life we’re building, brick by bloody brick.

And if anyone tries to take it away, we’ll kill them.

Together.